


We Love an Ambulance

by Andresome04



Series: RattyLoveFest [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One), Transformers - All Media Types, Transformers Generation One
Genre: Accidental Knotting, Angst, Battle, Bets & Wagers, Biting, Bittersweet, Domestic, Emotional, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explosions, Feels, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Heartfelt, I'll update the tags as I go, Implied Violence, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kinks, Knotting, M/M, Poetry, Ratchet week, RattyLoveFest, Sad, Sexual Interfacing, Siphoning, Sticky Sexual Interfacing, Wholesome, because i love this ambulance, cursing, gunfire, i decided to jump on Ratchet Week, i wrote this pretty late, mature language, may or may not stick to the schedule but oh well, ratchet deserves all the love, siphoning kink, this is late but then again, we all love this ambulance, wow look at the progression of these tags LOL
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-25
Updated: 2020-08-24
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:35:22
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 8,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24367408
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andresome04/pseuds/Andresome04
Summary: Just a series of short drabbles dedicated to Ratchet Week because admit it. We all love this ambulance.
Relationships: Drift | Deadlock/Ratchet
Series: RattyLoveFest [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1759348
Comments: 15
Kudos: 140





	1. Day 1: Duty/Desire

**Author's Note:**

> Day 1. It's late. I wrote this late. Oh well. Enjoy.

Ratchet needed to get his processor scanned—no! He needed a full defrag and sweep of his coding.

He didn’t know why or how he got into this situation. He didn’t know what external force managed to sabotage his processor and input a virus to completely alter his moral compass. It must have been the Decepticons. He was sure of it. Or some sick prank by one of the twins.

Then again, he was sure the twins couldn’t possibly create a virus that would make him willingly frag a con in the middle of a battlefield.

Because that’s what Ratchet was currently doing. Or should he say _who_?

“Fragging—Harder!”

The engorged spike thrusting in and out of the medic’s valve quickened its tempo, slamming into Ratchet with a force of a freight train. Sharp fangs attacked his neck cables as lethal claws gripped his hips, denting the metal with their strength.

Ratchet really was glitched. Of all mechs he could have possibly chosen, he chose one of the most terrible cons in the galaxy. And admittedly, one of his greatest mistakes from his past.

He grunted when one of Deadlock’s fangs punctured a line and he began siphoning, never faltering in his pace. Fragger couldn’t have the decency to give him a warning.

Still, he wouldn’t deny the burst of arousal that shot through his array from the action. Not when a loud groan escaped past his derma and his legs tightened around the con’s hips, betraying his true emotions.

Deadlock undoubtedly noticed. Ratchet could feel the smirk around his neck cables as a glossa continued to lick energon from his lines.

When this was all over, he’d ask First Aid to check all his systems, then he would perform a full system reboot because this wasn’t normal. He should be back in the healing areas, fixing mechs who continued to fall from the heat of battle. He should be yelling orders at his fellow medics and assistants. He should be doing his duty as the chief medical officer of the Autobots.

Here he is instead, being fragged by Deadlock—one of the most notorious cons in the Decepticon army—in an abandoned building, IN THE MIDDLE OF A BATTLE.

Yep. He was definitely glitched.

A particularly hard thrust sent stars to flash in his vision and pushed him that much closer towards overload. Based on the growling and the growing thrashing of the frame above him, the berzerker must be close too.

Which was fine by Ratchet because the sooner this was over, the sooner he could get back to work.

He was quickly swept by the increasing charge and pleasure, so much so that he failed to notice the growing pressure near the rim of his valve. Before he knew it, overload crashed over him in a long, thunderous wave.

When it was over, he wanted nothing more but to get far away from this place and the mech panting heavily above him and forget any of this ever happened. But when he shifted, he noticed pressure stretching the limits of his valve. A very obvious pressure that didn’t disappear no matter which way he moved.

With a quick clench, the answer became vividly clear.

_“You knotted me?!”_

He was so furious; he couldn’t find any satisfaction when Deadlock flinched from the sheer volume of his yell. Raising from his sprawled position on top of the medic, the con tried extracting himself from their connection—only to freeze in horror at the realization of their situation.

“Uh oh.”

Ratchet groaned and thumped his head on the ground, muttering curses that were lost to the sounds of battle around them.


	2. Day 2: Sarcasm/Sincere

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I wrote this late. There might be a few mistakes which I will fix later. Enjoy

It took a keen optic to notice the little things. The things that were easily overlooked; unnoticed; obscured by the blaring distractions.

It took a keen optic—and many, _many_ trips to the medbay.

Sunstreaker and Sideswipe were expert observers of these little subtleties. Of course, they were. They’d visited the medbay more frequently than any Autobot on the Ark no thanks to their impeccable ability of receiving the worst injuries after each battle. Sometimes the most injuries.

They were well versed in the inner machinations of what occurs in the medbay and of the CMO that runs it.

Oh, they knew Ratchet well enough they could see through the roughened exterior of his façade.

It was not to say that Ratchet was a meek bot either. Pit no. Far from it. They had the dents as proof of the countless attacks from the medic’s favorite wrench. But the twins knew a covered front when they saw one.

To the unobservant optic the scalding remarks, unfettered temper, and explicit threats worse than the fate of death would convince any bot that the medic was nothing but ruthless. Afterall, Ratchet could put on a pretty convincing act and always went through with his threats. Well, most of them.

He had fooled the twins for a time. When they had first met the ambulance, it was quite a turbulent fiasco. Two reckless, unstoppable forces met an equally stubborn, immovable presence. No one knew how they all managed to survive the encounter.

The berserker twins soon became very familiar with the infamous Hatchet, so much so that they made it a game as to how often and how quickly they could get Ratchet to pop his lid. For a time, the fierce façade was all they knew.

That was, until, they noticed the signs.

They were minute. Seemingly insignificant, except they _weren’t._

It started with a cube.

Two cubes to be precise. Sunstreaker preferences aligned with the sweeter tastes while Sideswipe loved the spiciness of Zincs and Coppers. Both shared mutual displeasure of the bitter medical grade they often consumed while in medical leave. No sane mech with proper taste receptors did.

Then one day after a battle with the cons, Sunstreaker was understandably surprised at the sweetness from the Magnesium infused medical-grade brought to him that morning. Sides almost spilled his own cube when the Copper spice hit his glossa.

Next came the blankets.

The medbay wasn’t normally cold. Ratchet was meticulous when it came to the parameters of his domain, temperature included. It was never too hot nor too cold but just on the frigid side where his machines wouldn’t overheat. By human standards, the medbay was akin to a refrigerator. To Cybertronians, it was more of a cool draft.

Still. It was quite a shock when Sunstreaker awoke from stasis with a warm mesh blanket on top of him, preventing the cooler air from aching his newly repaired joints.

It was after the incident where both twins, freshly repaired and _polished_ , onlined with their berths pushed together, did they realize something was up.

As spark twins, their sparks naturally sought out the others especially during moments where one is injured or experiencing strong emotions. It was only when one or the other or both were heavily injured after a battle where their sparks would ache to be near the other. _And oh, how they ached…_

That day, the twins awoke without a single ounce of pain in both body and spark, and it shook them like nothing ever before. There was only one person who could have thought to have done this—who would dare do this.

Afterward, they started their observation.

They did not expect what they would find nor were they prepared for it.

They saw a side of the Hatchet that they had never seen before. The way he treated his patients—aside from the grouchiness and terrible bedside manner—was…unbelievable.

Every action was subtle. Infinitesimal amongst the endless entropy, but the meaning behind each action spoke volumes.

An extra pillow for Ironhide’s nagging back. Jazz’s favorite music playing in the background from an old speaker. An energon goodie for Bumblebee for when he was feeling miserable (sometimes two). Blankets for those who needed them but were too timid to ask. A witty conversation or two just to break the boredom of sitting on your aft and waiting for your injury to heal.

Ratchet cared. He cared with such sincerity and kindness that the twins almost couldn’t fathom.

This was the side that very few were capable to see. The side that only revealed itself through these tiny actions. The Hatchet was an added layer to the level of depth behind this medic. A medic who cared for his patients like no other before.

It brought a new level of understanding to the twins. Everything had a whole new meaning now.

The rough exterior that was the Hatchet was just another manifestation of how Ratchet showed that level of devotion to his patients. And for that, the twins had a newfound respect for the medic.

To show such sincere compassion and c _are_ ….it was moving.

Only a handful of mechs noticed these little subtleties and even fewer were aware of the meaning behind them. The twins were among the few who acted upon the realization.

It was no way equivalent to the amount of deeds Ratchet has done for them already, but it was a starting point. A way to show their appreciation of their medic and for all the things he has done for them. For the Autobots.

It started with a cube.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A little late but oh well. You can see this chapter as a purely platonic relationship between the twins and Ratchet or you can see this as romantic. It's up to you. Let me know what you think.


	3. Day 3: Confidence/Regret

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Late again, but you know that's not new. I was originally gonna write a Regret prompt but I'm already in the progress of writing one of those *wink wink*. So I decided to write a confidence prompt instead.

Tracks groaned as pain flared from his damaged chassis. He could feel energon—his own energon run down his plating and onto the ground below. He could feel the burned wires and charred metal created from the blaster shot by one of the slagging cons. Fragger got a lucky hit.

“Don’t worry Tracks! We’re almost at the border. Just a few more kliks and a medic can come look at ya!"

The blue mech tried to find comfort in Mirage’s words but he could only hiss as his injuries were jostled due to the other’s rapid movements. He couldn’t blame Mirage, not when the other mech was carrying him like a fallen prince to the healing area where the medics resided. He’d suck it up until they arrived.

As luck would have it, they’d reached the magnetic field protecting the healing zones in short time and, once cleared, they’d shot past the barrier and into the medbay.

Tracks was placed on one of the available berths before he was given a gentle pat on the shoulder. 

“Gotta get back into the fray. You take care Tracks, yeah?”

Nodding, Tracks gripped the other’s servo in a firm shake as gratitude. Then true to his special ability, Mirage disappeared. Literally.

Tracks leaned back on the berth and tried to stifle his whimpers as the pain in his abdomen intensified. Stupid con. He was lucky Mirage was nearby to take the con out before it could do worse damage, else he’d be nothing but slagged metal. 

But his luck was short-lived. 

A loud explosion brought his attention back to the barrier where he and Mirage came from and immediately noticed the trails of smoke coming from the main fence. Tracks watched, to his horror, as one of the generators was aflame, causing the magnetic field to malfunction. In the next second, one of the walls sputtered before collapsing to nonexistence.

It was enough of an invitation for several nearby Decepticons to take advantage of.

Tracks cursed as con after con made their way into the healing area, firing their blasters at anything with the opposite insignia. He tried reaching for his blaster within his subspace but the pain from his wound made his movements shaky and uncoordinated. 

A click next to his audio caused him to turn his helm towards the sound—only to be met with the end of a charged barrel in front of his face.

The con at the other end of the blaster grinned savagely. “Say goodbye Autoscum.”

But before the con could pull the trigger a shot rang, hitting the Decepticon in the arm causing him to howl and grasp his limb. 

Tracks turned to the origins of the shot, only to see one of the most terrifying and amazing things he’d ever seen. 

Ratchet—with an expression of pure, unbridled **fury** and a blaster pointing right at the Decepticon—roared.

_ "GET AWAY FROM MY PATIENT!” _

He shot the con again in the chest plates and repowered his blaster before turning to the other trespassing cons, paying them a similar treatment. 

Tracks stared, both awed and surprised at the brutally efficient attack by the Chief Medical Officer. He knew Ratchet had a temper and boy, did he take his job seriously. But he’d never seen the medic let loose so suddenly or display such a protective fierceness over his fellow Autobots before. Not to mention the deadly aim he shot with that blaster. It nearly rivaled Bluestreak’s. 

The fact alone left him reeling….and a little aroused. 

Before Tracks knew it, said medic was already kneeling in front of him, having dispatched the intruders just seconds prior. He didn’t even realize that Ratchet had already deactivated his pain receptors and was currently running a quick scan over his frame.

Tracks opened his intake—only for Ratchet to cut him off with a yell. 

“Get that barrier fixed and running! We already got a breech in the main gate so unless you want your servos full of energon and _bullets,_ I suggest you get it done NOW!”

Tracks gaped as Ratchet made the order to a few of the assistants milling about. But it wasn’t the order itself that had left him speechless or the sheer volume of the medic’s vocal cords—but the fact that Ratchet gave the order when his attention was turned _away_ from Tracks and while his servoswere **_wrist_** - ** _deep_** _in_ **_his_** _own_ **_insides_.**

Static spilled from his intake as Tracks tried speaking, only to fail fantastically. But he did manage at the very least to grab the medic’s attention.

“What? Do I have to change your vocalizer too?” was the gruff comment he received.

Resetting, Tracks managed to sputter out, “You just took out an entire breach single-handedly without a scratch on your plating!”

Ratchet frowned. “So?”

Tracks shuttered his optics. “You just sent a fleet of mechs in a hurry because they feared angering YOU more than the Decepticons!!”

“And?”

“You’re in the middle of surgery and you’re not even LOOKING at what you’re DOING!!!”

All Tracks received was a simple shrug, must to his astonishment. “I’m just that good.”

He was left speechless once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It was honestly a roll of the dice with these characters. Mirage and Tracks just so happen to be the lucky two I chose to be featured in this fic. Hope y'all enjoyed it at least. Let me know what you think?


	4. Day 4: Dance Off/ Working Overtime

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Maybe working overtime has some perks after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I KNOW I'M STUPIDLY LATE AND I APOLOGIZE. Life, work, and school are bitches. Also, with everything that has been going on in the world, my focus has also been elsewhere but I won't dive deep into that since there are better platforms to discuss the issues going on around us.   
> Anyways, I will say that I'm...not exactly happy with this chapter. I'll admit I didn't have a good idea to begin with, and I wanted to finish this chapter before working on my other projects. I kinda don't like this at all really but I wanted to give you all something to read if y'all were interested. Consider this my warm-up for bigger and better projects in the works. ;)   
> Enjoy.

_~going to set me free. Oh, the fallen’s going to make me a free mech. The fallen’s going to set me free._

Ah, now he remembers.

The old chorale from Dead End.

No wonder it took Ratchet a moment to remember the words. It had been ages since he had last heard it sung. Even longer since he hummed an actual tune while working.

He supposed working overtime at this age isn’t the same as it used to be.

Then again, with the new help he’s gotten it shouldn’t be an option for him to begin with. Not with Velocity, Spinister, and First Aid each fulfilling a shift in the medbay. If First Aid found out he stayed passed his shift, he’d never hear the end of it. Again.

Ratchet chuckled. First Aid was becoming a fine CMO. It seemed he took after Ratchet in more ways than even _he_ imagined which both pleased and annoyed him. However, Aid still had plenty to learn until Ratchet could fully rein in his constant surveillance.

Still, it wouldn’t do to anger the kid over something even Ratchet wouldn’t slip by over one of his subordinates. He would have to quit soon.

 _Juuuust_ _one last_ datapad to look over and then he’d leave.

And if he so happened to muse himself with a tune, well, no one was around to hear him.

He supposed he should find a chair or desk to work on, but he found standing in front of a workbench to be just as comfortable. So, he continued his fine croon, marking little edits on the screen as he went. The more he hummed, the more lyrics came to mind, and more memories began to resurface.

So many memories—of an age long passed but never forgotten.

He missed the sound of the medbay doors opening but caught the final screech of their closing. He couldn’t hear the footsteps that normally accompanied thereafter, but he didn’t need to.

There was only one person who would visit the medbay during the dead hours.

Ratchet felt the ends of his derma curve upwards. Of course, _he_ would come. Drift never liked Ratchet working more than he should, but at least he expressed his disapproval in more preferable ways than First Aid did— _much preferable ways._

He felt the other’s EM field touch his own, always announcing his presence with a soft flutter in greeting as to not startle the medic. How sweet of him. Then as their fields laced together, he felt the other stiffen slightly, hearing the tune emanating from Ratchet.

Of all the mechs on the Lost Light, Drift was the only one who could recognize this melody.

Ratchet didn’t cease. Mildly curious to see how the other would further react to hearing the familiar song after so long. After a moment of no further action however, he stopped and looked over his shoulder.

Drift didn’t look unsurprised, but the expression on his face morphed to a multitude of emotions. He stared at Ratchet like he wanted to question him, but his intake remained shut.

His optics remained firmly fixed on the medics. Both silently inquiring and studying. Ratchet did the same. Their fields remained firmly intertwined, displaying things neither could openly admit. No words were said, not that they were needed.

After a long moment, Ratchet turned back to his datapad and continued his scribbles.

“Shouldn’t you be in recharge at this hour?”

Like Ratchet was one to talk.

There was a pause. Then Drift murmured in response. “Was about to say the same t’you.”

Ratchet scoffed, though there was no heat to it. “I’m almost done here. Just need to finish signing off on this paperwork before heading out.”

“Shoulda done that 2 groons ago when yer shift ended.”

Ratchet could hear the gruffness in the other’s vocals but didn’t comment. When they were alone, Drift often reverted to his Rodion drawl. Usually in the context where Drift was dealing with heavy emotions would he hear the low rumble that resonated within his vocals—such as the case in point.

“Old habits die hard.” Ratchet heard a noncommittal hum in response.

He sensed the other moving closer until he could feel the heat of the other’s engines radiating onto his own plating. Ratchet waited, but the other made no further action.

He felt a soft vent against his audio. “Does that song ye’er hummin’ to count as one?”

The medic invented slowly, plating shifting minutely. He allowed his field to completely unfurl against the other’s, broadcasting every one of his emotions.

“It just came to me. I didn’t realize what I was doing until I recognized the tune.” He felt another vent brushing against his sensitive receptors and he fought a shiver. “Even then, I didn’t feel like stopping.”

Strong arms wrapped around him then, slowly gliding across his plating towards his middle and a warm chassis press against his back. A chin found purchase on his shoulder.

“Didn’t think you’d remember.”

Ratchet sighed. “It feels like a lifetime ago. We lived different lives then. We were different people.” He placed his stylus on the workbench before resting a hand on the one by his waist. “But the past always finds a way to come back.”

He heard another hum.

“Do you remember the words?”

Ratchet nodded.

“Sing ‘em fer me.”

Mild surprise flashed in the medic’s field. He tried to turn his gaze towards the speedster but felt the arms tighten in response. Despite his prodding, the swordsmech’s field remained unperturbed.

Still curious at the other’s reaction, Ratchet raised a brow. He wasn’t so self-conscious that he would be embarrassed about singing in front of his conjux but was still taken aback by the sudden push. His curiosity, however, got the better of him and so he acquiesced with the request. He resumed the tune except for this time, he accompanied it with words.

_I’ve been deep down, deep in Dead End  
Hoping things might go my way_

He feels a shift in the mech behind him.

_For every hard-earned credit, I make  
There stands an overseer just to take it away_

_I’ve busted plating, broken buildings, looked at death in the optic  
I hope he’s going to break these chains._

Ratchet feels servos run over his abdomen, firm in their touch. Feels his surface receptors ignite from the touch. A warm breath at the back of his neck causes a tingle to run down his spine. A hot and heavy field envelops his own and suddenly he is engulfed my memories.

Of the slums. Of Dead End. Home of the down trotted, obsolete, and forgotten. A gathering place where lives were sucked bone-dry and left to rust. He remembers the mechs and femmes tumbling about, scavenging for the bits of scraps they could find.

He especially remembers those poor sparks bellowing their sorrows throughout the gallows. The Chorale of Dead End. His dingy clinic at the center of it all.

_Another hard day, no energon, no rest—_

**I saw my chance, so I got him at last**

Ratchet paused. Startled when Drift versed the next lines. His own vocals soft barely murmured above his shoulder.

**I took his six-shooter, put two in his chest  
He’ll never say a word no more**

The speedster's hands drifted towards his waist once again and tightened their grip.

**The fallen’s got ‘em good for sure.**

They soon were swept in a sea of reminiscence. Of lives long passed, of a world no longer in existence. But together, they brought the past to the present.

**_Oh, the fallen’s gonna make me a free mech.  
The fallen’s gonna set me free._ **

**_Oh, the fallen’s gonna make a free mech.  
The fallen’s going to set me free._ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I might delete this chapter anyways. I don't like it. I may leave it for a week or so before deleting it. UNLESS y'all really want me to leave it, then please let me know. I'll try to come back with something better, I promise.


	5. Day 5: I needed that!/Meeting Halfway

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back! Although I will admit that this chapter took WAY longer than it should have...and it was longer than expected. I supposed it makes up for the last disaster chapter. I'm not too happy with the ending but I just wanted to be done with this. Enjoy.

“Of all the slag-eating _flargs_ in this rusted **snork-grunkl** , that stupid piece of _shit—”_

Drift could only stare in mild amusement as his friend voiced the most colorful curses, he ever had the likes of hearing. He knew the medic’s foul-temper like so many others and knew that when Ratchet started cursing a storm, it was wise to be extremely wary…and find the nearest cover.

Luckily, Drift enjoyed a little rain now and then.

“—thinks all this is a _fucking_ joke! If one more fragging machine dies on me, I’m going to **slergth** the likes of his _friggle-patyr_ and see how that **motherfucker** likes it when—”

Drift tried suppressing a chuckle with the back of his servo while stirring his drink with the other. He and Ratchet frequently shared a booth at Swerve’s to bask in the other’s company. It wasn’t always planned but where one sat, the other was quick to join them in their shared solitude. It didn’t always end well, but it was something both mechs took pleasure in after a long day’s shift whether they admitted to it or not.

It seemed the Hatchet had burned his last fuse because, in the next moment, he took his drink and threw it back in one swig before flagging Swerve down for another. His posture shifted to a more exhausting position, with one hand supporting his helm and the other grasping his empty cube.

“I need those funds Drift.” Ratchet continued with a sigh. “I can’t treat patients if I’m using old machines that break down now and then. I’m worried one of these days I’m going to be in the middle of surgery and my CPM machine glitches on me.”

His field ignites with a sudden surge of irritation. “And if Rodimus keeps fragging treating this as a joke, that’s exactly what’s going to happen!” His fist slams against the table, scaring an arriving Swerve with his promised drink. Quickly depositing the cube, the mini made his hasty departure.

The swordsmech felt a pang of sympathy for the fleeing mech, but it was irrelevant for now. Turning to the peeved medic, he reached out with a calm, soothing field before speaking.

“I’ll talk to Rodimus about the issue. I agree this is something that takes priority and should be taken with all seriousness. I’m sure he would understand.”

Ratchet snorted. “Rodimus and seriousness isn’t a mix I’ve heard of before.”

“I’m sure with the correct persuasion, Rodimus can be willed to see reason,” Drift insisted.

“Rodimus and seeing reason? Are we talking about the same mech here?”

“Ratchet. Rodimus is our captain and he wouldn’t still be our captain if he didn’t have an ounce of rationality.”

The medic scoffed. “Some **treyfling** captain he is.”

 _“Ratchet.”_ It was a warning, one the medic recognized when Drift was nearing the edge of his well-maintained composure. Ratchet was quite familiar with it, since he often poked Drift enough times to see passed the cracks of his happy Autobot façade.

He also knew when he poked just a little too far.

Cycling a ventilation, Ratchet forced himself to relax. He knew he was being irrational himself, and Drift was only trying to help. There was no need to anger the only mech who was willing to listen to his rants.

“Alright. Alright.” He raised his hands, palms up in a gesture of surrender. “I’m not saying he’s a terrible captain or that we need a replacement, but I’d still appreciate it if he behaved like a mature mech at our staff meetings instead of blowing us off! I really need the money for the medbay and it ain’t gonna happen if Firebug won’t listen.”

Drift listened, field soothing and armor relaxing after the brief pause. “Like I said, I’ll talk to Rodimus. I’m sure he’ll see reason. In the meantime, why don’t you send me a list of all the things you need and an estimate of the number of credits needed to purchase them.”

Ratchet sighed but did as asked. “These aren’t cheap, but they’re necessary. Some of these things I can try finding replacements for on my own but the rest I need to purchase from other markets. Even if they are fragging expensive.”

He took a sip of his drink, taking the time to enjoy bubbling engex in his intake before swallowing. “For what it’s worth, thanks. I appreciate the effort.”

He was met with a small smile. “Not a problem.”

There was a pause; a brief moment to simply bask in the silence and soothe the tension.

After a while, Drift shot the other a mischievous grin. “Speaking of correcting behaviors, I believe you could use a little intervention yourself.”

Ratchet frowned and raised a brow. “The frag you say?”

The grin grew, revealing several glinting fangs. “It’s what _you_ said.” He chuckled. “For a renown medic, you have terrible filters for your speech patterns.”

Ratchet stared for a moment, fully processing what was said to him. “You making fun of how I _fucking_ speak?”

Drift shook his head, the grin never disappearing. “I’m just saying you curse a substantial amount. I mean A LOT! It’s hilarious and frightening at how much. Not many Decepticons swear as much as you.”

The speedster watched in amusement as the medic sputtered for a second before unleashing a storm of profanities, the likes of which sent a few mechs near their booth to migrate farther away while covering their audios. Not all were in the same language either.

He bore through it all and even laughed when Swerve shot them a threat of eviction for scaring his customers. When he eventually calmed himself, he turned back to the enraged doctor.

“Tell you what. How about we make a bet?” He barely managed to speak when the other mech paused to shoot a glare at the bartender.

“What kind of bet?” The medic looked at him with narrowed optics and a fuming expression. He would have laughed if it weren’t for the possibility that the Hatchet could erupt once again.

“Every time you swear, you have to give up a credit chip. We can even find a pretty jar to put it in to keep track. We’ll see how long it takes for you to fill it by the time we land at our next pitstop.”

“And pray tell what the point of this would be?” The medic glared.

“To prove that you also got issues. But hey, no one’s perfect right?” Drift responded with an innocent shrug of his shoulders, though the wicked smirk on his faceplates told otherwise.

Ratchet stared at him suspiciously, knowing very well what kind of trap this was. Well if the swordsmech wanted to play, then fine, Ratchet would play and he sure as pit wasn’t about to go down without a fight.

“Fine. I’ll take this bet **if** you stop broadcasting your Spectralist mumbo jumbo. Same conditions as mine.” A smirk playing at his derma. “Whoever fills their jar the most, has to do one favor for the other. No questions asked.”

He stuck out a servo. “Deal?”

Drift observed him for a moment. Optics flickering from the medic’s face to the outstretched servo and back.

He grinned, reaching out with his own servo and shaking Ratchet’s. “Deal.”

{}{}{}

It was an interesting match indeed.

To the occasional onlooker, it would seem Ratchet and Drift were purposefully out to rattle the other to the brink of insanity. Perhaps it was in a way.

Whether it was Ratchet purposefully badmouthing Spectralism and distributing false beliefs just to get the swordsmech riled, or Drift intentionally setting off the medic’s buttons so he can blow a fuse; their actions often resulted in jars steadily filling with shiny credit chips.

“Tailgate,” Drift vented deeply. “For the last time, crossing your fingers and touching the tips of your pedes is **not** standard practice for spectralism. It’s not even a form of prayer! Whatever Ratchet has been telling you is complete—” He paused. A dawning realization clouding his field.

“Blast!”

Drift slapped a palm to his faceplates and gritted his teeth as a familiar and _oh so annoying_ , laugh sounded from behind him.

“HA! HA! _Glitch!_ That’s another **furthk’l** credit in the—FUCK!!!”

And on it went.

{}{}{}

He sat alone in the farthest booth away from the crowds, helm bowed, a totem held in one servo, and the other clenched tightly in a fist. A cube sat untouched nearby.

After finally reaching Theophany, after finally answering the call where his great sword led, the Circle of Light was nowhere to be found. They had searched and searched. Found a comatose city and set it free and yet, they couldn’t find a single spark belonging to a member. They had failed.

 _Drift_ failed. He could still feel that something was killing the Circle of Light but had no idea how to find them or what to do next.

Now dejected and at a complete loss, he turned to the only thing he knew how. He practiced…and he prayed.

He heard footsteps from just ahead of him before stopping at his booth. After a pause, there was shuffling, and he knew there was a frame sitting in front of his. He didn’t need to online his optics to know who it was.

A field gently reached for his and he didn’t have the strength to fight against it. Soon they were interwoven tightly and his despondent one mixed with a soothing blanket of care and sympathy.

Drift onlined his optics and met with a pair full of concern and condolence. Those bright optics then flickered to the object in his servo.

He too looked down at the totem in his palm before clenching it tightly, suddenly realizing the infringement to their bet.

“Ratch now’s really not the time—”

“Don’t worry about it. That’s not important.”

A warm hand draped over his while a field pulsed a wave of support and empathy. Drift shook.

He bowed his head and sent a wave of gratitude back.

{}{}{}

A clutter of tools and machinery crashed onto the ground as the table they were resting on upturned over. It was only the latest casualty.

Ratchet heaved as he forced himself to get a grip, but the damage had been done.

He placed a servo over his faceplates and grit his teeth as he counted his numeric tables slowly. It only helped so much.

Frag, he was pissed. He was pissed and he had only himself to blame. A recent attack from rogue cons left more than a few injured. A patient died during surgery.

Corkspin was his name. Joined the voyage over a stupid bet and visited the medbay a handful of times. His latest trip turned out to be his last. Suffered a shot to the chassis that was just too lucky, or unlucky in this case. He died less than 5 minutes into surgery.

He died under Ratchet’s supervision.

The thought nearly sent the medic into another blind rage, but he barely suppressed it in time.

Even after gaining new hands and using the only equipment that functioned properly, Ratchet couldn’t save him. He lost plenty of patients in the past, hadn’t lost one in a while, but it still didn’t get any easier to bear.

He was still a failure.

Removing the servo from his faceplates, he looked down at the carnage.

Several tools laid scattered about. Broken glass sprinkled the floor and other supplies were discarded around him. His optics caught sight of an upturned device and after bending down to look at it, realized it was his CPM machine; broken and unsalvageable.

“Frag.” He needed that.

He straightened himself and turned to fetch something to clean this mess—

And was met with the sight of Drift standing by the doorway.

They stared at each other. Ratchet waited for the other mech to speak his business, but nothing happened. The speedster merely looked at him with an unreadable expression before looking around at the catastrophe around him. After another kilk of silence, Ratchet had enough.

 _“_ What the **frag** do you _want?!”_

Drift looked at him. He didn’t say a word and continued to wear that same expression. Ratchet wanted to punch him.

“Because as you can see,” he made a wide gesture with his arms. “I am slagging busy! So, if you don’t want anything or need any repairs, get the **frig** out of my medbay **!** ”

He strove past the mech to grab a broom leaning against a shelf and began sweeping the mess on the floor before his optics caught sight of a sparkling object. He registered what he was seeing and huffed in astonishment.

A dry laugh escaped him while he shook his helm. “Of course. What else would you be here for?” he rasped.

Ratchet turned to face the speedster who gave him a look of worried confusion. He returned one with narrowed optics, derma set to a bitter line.

“You knew that our _little deal_ would be the last **truflyn** thing in my mind.” He patted the credit-filled jar behind him. “So, you came to gloat. Perfect timing.”

Drift was the epitome of confusion, but it only lasted a few kliks before his processor caught up with the accusation. His optics widened and he opened his intake, but Ratchet beat him to it.

“I don’t want to fragging hear it Drift.” Ratchet’s glare was venomous. “Just get the fuck out of here and leave me alone.”

“Ratchet that’s not why I’m—”

“I said I don’t want to hear it!!”

Ratchet turned away and continued to clean. He purposefully ignored the growing cracks caused by his grip on the broom as his focus was on containing the raging storm of emotions within him.

“Ratchet listen to me. I came here because I heard what—”

“Can’t **you** slagging listen?!” He nearly whacked the speedster on the helm with how fast he turned. “I don’t **noglin** care what you have to say now leave—”

“ **Ratchet. Stop.”**

His grip on the broom was rivaled by another’s and suddenly there was a servo gripping his shoulder. His glare was met with a solemn one and before he could lash out, the other spoke.

“I didn’t come here to antagonize you Ratchet.” The clasp on his shoulder tightened. “I heard what happened to Corkspin.”

Ratchet couldn’t hide the flinch. His delicate resolve already crumbling by the swordsmech’s words.

“I’m sorry Ratchet.” Drift’s gaze softened. “I’m really sorry.”

He would continue to deny ever breaking down that night, but when arms wrapped around to support him when he collapsed, and when he was immediately engulfed by a warm, comforting field, it didn’t fragging matter.

Not when the mech holding him was all too willing to muffle his sobs.

{}{}{}

“—weeks to finally fork over the credits and it didn’t even matter anyway. The suppliers ran out of stock before I could even make a purchase.”

Irritation colored Ratchet’s tone. “Now I have to wait until the next stop to resupply the medbay.”

A noncommittal hum sounded next to him. “Maybe Brainstorm or Perceptor can fabricate some equipment for you until then.”

Ratchet scoffed. “Perceptor’s a genius but he has limited medical knowledge let alone know how to construct medical machinery. And I wouldn’t trust Brainstorm not to weaponize any equipment.”

The medic was still irked that even after finally receiving the promised funds from Rodimus and docking in some distant planet, Ratchet still failed to acquire his needed supplies. Now with his offshore time finished, he made his way to the still under-equipped medbay with a dutiful Drift accompanying him.

He still couldn’t believe that the only medical facility in that planet was completely out of stock. Sold out was what they said. Sold. Out. _Fragging unbelievable._

“Poor timing is what it was. Poor **zeryn** timing.”

When they finally reached their destination, Ratchet rubbed his chevron with his palm and signaled the doors to open.

“I’m sure everything will work out.” Drift eyed the medic as he made his way through the entrance.

“Pah. I’d be lucky if another machine doesn’t bust—”

Ratchet stood dead in his tracks.

Around him was a refurbished medbay. New equipment and tools were organized in their respective places. Updated programs and machinery beeped in the positive, displaying their functionality was in optimum levels. Spotless tables, slabs, berths; a polished floor!

His medbay looked exactly like he dreamed of.

“How?” Ratchet strode forward, not quite believing what his optics were taking in. Everything on Ratchet’s list was here. From the smallest tool to the largest mechanism was present. The rest was completely renovated.

He turned to the mech behind him who was completely silent, taking in the medic’s reaction.

“Did you…do this?”

He received his answer in the form of a dazzling grin blooming the speedster’s features.

“I had a little help from Rodimus and a few others,” Drift responded with a shrug.

Ratchet continued to stare in disbelief, not quite knowing what to say. He could barely manage a simple, “Why?”

Drift’s gaze softened. “You needed it.”

“That’s—” Ratchet worked his intake. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

“Doesn’t it?”

The swordsmech began to stride forward. “You needed new equipment. So, you got new equipment. I just needed help from Rodimus and a few others to get everything set up. Simple.”

The medic frowned. “No, not that simple. Why would Rodimus give me money if he was going to buy them anyway?”

“That’s because he didn’t buy the stuff.”

Ratchet stared for a moment before his optics widened in realization. “ _You_ bought all this?”

Drift nodded. “I’m filthy rich, “he said nonchalantly. “And there’s one more thing.”

The swordsmech reached into his subspace and extracted two items and handed them over to a stunned medic. “You win. Congratulations.”

Ratchet ogled the two jars filled with credits in his servos, processor struggling to comprehend what the frag was happening. He looked to the speedster in front of him.

“Drift I didn’t—”

“Believe me. You win. Consider this,” he gestured to the room around him. “As the favor. No questions asked.”

Ratchet struggled to find his next words. All at once shocked and overwhelmed at the entire situation. After a long moment, he managed to speak.

“Drift I can’t accept this. This…this is incredible, but I don’t deserve this.”

“You do.” The speedster had the gall to laugh. “You deserve all of it Ratch. Trust me.”

It was a long pause. Long enough for Ratchet to fully process everything that just occurred and to finally decide his next steps.

He placed the jars on a nearby bench. He turned to the speedster and gave him a tender smile. “Alright then.”

He stepped forward. “Maybe you can help me with one more thing.”

Before Drift could respond, his face was enveloped by gentle servos and soft dermas pressed against his own. It was a long moment before they separated.

Drift stared flabbergasted as heat spread throughout his frame. The frame pressed close to his didn’t make things any better. Working his intake, he tried to think of something to say but the warm— _hot—_ medic beat him to it.

“If you’ll let me, I can show you just how **grateful** I am to you.” The speedster felt a molten field of desire pulsing against his in emphasis. “In _all_ the ways I know how.”

He was attacked by one last pulse which left him reeling before the heavy field and the warm frame withdrew.

Drift could only stare as the medic strode to the exit perfectly calm and collected while he fought to control his composure. The other mech briefly threw a look over his shoulder at the swordsmech, a sly smirk tugging at his derma.

“That is if you can get to your room before I do.”

With that, Ratchet ran.

It took Drift an embarrassingly long moment to fully process the implications but when it finally clicked, he grinned. Another bet. Another game set.

He bolted and luckily, it didn’t take him nearly as long to reach the medic halfway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two more left!!! I already know what I want to write. And I'm really glad and slightly sad that it's almost ending. I know ratchet week is long over but I'm still determined to finish this even if it kills me. I really want to return to some WIPs I've really been lagging on (namely (Un)Regrettable Mistakes and Atonement). But I wanna finish this work first before anything else. Unless inspiration and motivation take me in another direction.
> 
> I also wanna thank all y'all for your wonderful comments. I read them like a billion times and it makes me so happy that y'all love my work! It really keeps me going.


	6. Day 6: This war will never end/Without love there is no meaning

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “So, what do you think happens when we die?”  
> Based on the beautiful response by Keanu Reeves.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I was originally going to post this with just the first part but then decided to add the second part. I thought it would be a fitting touch to this chapter IMO. This chapter is inspired by the beautiful response by Keanu Reeves in an interview at the Late Show with Stephen Colbert. I'll post a link at the endnotes. 
> 
> I was supposed to post this sooner but a bitch called Quantum Physics got in the way. Enjoy.

“I told you Aid, it’s not going to happen. No ceremony. No funeral.”

The other medic sighed. “Okay, Ratchet. Whatever you want, we’ll go with it.” Despite having a faceplate and a visor, First Aid easily displayed his resignation. “No ceremony. No funeral.” Even if the younger mech didn’t agree with the decision.

Ratchet knew Aid meant well; knew that he wanted the best for Ratchet, but with such little time left, the ultimate verdict was _his_ alone. First Aid understood well enough and acquiesced with minimal resistance during an argument.

Ratchet missed the fight from the other mech.

He couldn’t blame Aid of course. He would act the same if their positions were reversed, but the fact was that Ratchet was on borrowed time and despite every effort made possible, nothing would change his fate.

He knew this of course. Had known for a while and made peace with it. He lived the life he wanted to live and was fortunate enough to see the end ahead of time. Not many were lucky enough to witness that.

Having already set his affairs in order before his condition took over most of his frame, Ratchet could finally spend the rest of his days in relative peace and wait for the inevitable…end.

Easier said than done.

Despite traditional upbringing, Ratchet wasn’t a traditional mech. Thus, his apparent distaste in flamboyant ceremonies. He already had his fill of the extravagant in his conjuxing—one of the greatest highlights of his life without a doubt—but didn’t need another commemoration for his passing. Funerals were too sad. Too bitter. They were a waste of time and resources.

He wasn’t even going to enjoy it anyway so there was no point.

No funeral. This was what Ratchet wanted. First Aid knew this. Drift knew this. Even if they didn’t agree with his decision. Tough.

Everything else was already laid out in his will and as promised, Drift and Aid would see it through. Now there was nothing to do but wait.

If only he had _something_ to do other than sit on his aft and stare at his impending death. But alas, his legs gave up about a week ago and he stopped feeling close to anything from the waist down. Not even paperwork was an option no matter how much he begged First Aid.

Speaking of paperwork.

“Have you finally published your report on the cure?” Hopefully, no one noticed his obvious interest in topic change.

“I’m just having an editor finish the last edits before publishing it.” First Aid didn’t appear to have noticed, though he readily jumped to respond. “It’s going to be widespread I’m sure. After three golden ages and a war later, we finally have a cure for age-related spark burnout. Not just a treatment.”

His voice turned soft. “It’s all thanks to you Ratchet. If it wasn’t for you, I don’t think we’d have gotten this far.”

The older medic waved him off, a snort escaping his dermas. “There’s nothing to thank me for kid. You did all the experimentation. I just provided half the materials.”

First Aid shook his head. “Still. We did something no doctor has ever completed in our entire history. Something that could save millions of lives and yet,” he sighed, field turning somber. “It wasn’t enough to save yours.”

It was Ratchet’s turn to sigh. “If it means saving all those lives, I’d gladly give mine up.” He paused, chewing the inside of his cheek. “If it means someone else could have a second chance, I’d do this again in a sparkbeat.”

“…you choose life.”

Ratchet turned to the speaker, briefly catching First Aid doing the same. He gazed at his conjux who sat silently at his side, absently stroking one of Ratchet’s hands in his own.

Drift’s focus was solely on the hand in his grasp, caressing each metal plate like a delicate piece of glass. His gaze was intense, but not austere; faceplates set to a neutral expression; field a mellow wave brushing against Ratchet’s. He was silent for a moment. Then he spoke.

“Even in death, you choose life.”

He stopped his caresses, bringing the medic’s hand up and brushing his lips against the warm metal.

Ratchet stared at his conjux, spark palpitating inside his chassis in a way only the swordsmech could cause. He flexed his hand within the other’s grasp, drawing the other’s attention. His gaze met Drift’s.

“Without love, there is no meaning. _Life_ has no meaning.”

He saw the light in his love’s optics brighten intensely and Ratchet met him with his own gaze that spoke volumes. They stared at one another for several precious moments.

Drift shuttered his optics and kissed his hand, this time keeping it there for a long while.

…..

“You’re wasting your breath Aid you can’t convince him.”

“Not without solid evidence he won’t and even then, I’d still reject the idea.”

“I still can’t believe you don’t believe in primus or the Allspark.”

“There’s no concrete evidence of either existing so you’re essentially wasting your time here.”

“Oh, but you believe in parallel universes and **undead** sparkeaters but you won’t believe in the almighty.”

“Nope.”

A frustrated sigh. “You’re unbelievable.”

“No, I’m Ratchet.”

A snicker.

“I’m surprised _you_ aren’t jumping all over this. You’re the spectralist, isn’t your job trying to convert atheistic heathens to your spiritual beliefs?”

Drift looked to the other medic, a small smirk playing at his derma. “After being married for so long, I learned to pick and choose my battles.” He turned to his conjux. “Besides, this one’s a lost cause. I learned that from experience.”

He was treated to one of Ratchet’s dazzling grins. A rare thing to see nowadays.

First Aid shook his head while crossing his arms in front of him. “Still. Not believing in Primus is one thing. But not believing in the existence of the Allspark—the cybertronian promised land mind you—after death is a bit ignorant don’t you think?”

“Death is real. The Allspark is not.” Ratchet snarked back.

Scoffing, Aid placed his hands on his hips and addressed the older medic. “Alright then mister “All and Knowing.” Tell me this: What do you think happens when we die?”

Ratchet was silent. His gaze flickered to his lap as he cycled air into his vents slowly, evenly. He mulled over the question, ignoring the two pairs of optics trained on him while memories flowed within his mind’s eye.

Memories of old friends and acquaintances; of fallen soldiers and past lovers; of strangers old and new. Every death he witnessed flashed before him, both the bittersweet and the agonizing. Each death had meaning even if the graying frame held little. He saw each death as it was and the significance behind them—to others. Each life had significance. Had meaning.

He contemplated every last one and his own impending death, what it would mean to the lives left behind. Finally, he answered.

“I know that the ones who love us will miss us.”

All was silent.

He cycled a vent, gaze flickering to First Aid briefly before turning to his beloved—only to have a faceplate press firmly to the side of his face. Ratchet readily returned the nuzzle before Drift buried himself in his neckcables. He pressed a kiss to the nearest finial before shuttering his optics closed. Their fields intertwined tightly.

First Aid, filled with raw emotion but at a loss for words, nodded.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ONE MORE Y'ALL!! One last chapter till we're finished with this! I have a final this upcoming week so I gotta study for it. Here are the promised links:
> 
> Interview + Quote: https://youtu.be/oNu6NyMkp8k  
> Just Quote: https://youtu.be/etlBZInTE-I
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated!


	7. Day 7: Freespace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here it is. The final chapter. It's been fun but all good things must come to an end. Thank you for sticking around. Enjoy.

**“Save yourself,” said the wounded  
“I’m staying here with you” replied the medic  
**From the Ballad of the Medic

Duty of a Medic

It is the duty of a medic to care and preserve all life.  
No matter the history, function, or significance.  
A level of care must be followed dutifully  
For how could a medic be a medic  
if the oaths are not adhered to

The oath of Care  
To practice and promote the quality and equal availability  
of medical care.  
For even if the most stubborn patients prove to be troublesome  
A duty of care must be abided, for  
It is the gentlest of touches  
that can truly tame the hardest of exteriors.

The oath of Professionalism  
To maintain professional competence, striving always for excellence  
in the delivery of patient care.  
To take responsibility for one’s actions and judgment  
To always think for the greater good  
for all of creation.

To always maintain composure  
during the good and the bad,  
For when the odds are unfavorable,  
When the best decision must be the hardest one to make.

The oath of Good Judgement  
To know how to make the right decision  
To decide the correct calls in any given situation  
To realize when to give that final call  
even when it is the most difficult one any medic can make.  
To be brave and strong enough  
to Let Go

It is the duty of a medic  
To be the voice of reason and have a stable front.  
Think logically and critically  
Act accordingly and swiftly  
To be the symbol of hope for those without  
To bring the utmost comfort and care to every patient  
With soothing, gentle hands,  
and a drive to heal.

To be a beacon, capable of stilling chaos,  
lulling those in need to a calm,  
reassuring that help is on the way

Like the soothing call of an ambulance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's that folks. Thank you for reading and sending those wonderful comments & kudos. Those really drove me to continue writing. I wouldn't have done finished if it weren't for all of your support, so thank you again. TBH I think this is the first series I have ever finished lol! But worry not, I'll be back with more of my bullshit in my other works. Now that this piece is complete I can finally go back to some WIPs, so you can always catch me there. You can also catch me on twitter and tumblr under the same name too in case you have any questions or wanna check on what I'm currently working on. Once again, thanks for sticking around and I hope you all enjoyed this wonderful series celebrating the most wonderful ambulance! ;D
> 
> For now, I bid you all ado.

**Author's Note:**

> I'm tired. Goodnight.


End file.
